Yesterday I learned that, out of 82 submissions, I was not a finalist for the short story section of the Newfoundland and Labrador Arts and Letters Competition. I've had some success with the competition before and I'd had high hopes.

I read the letter of sad, sad condolences. I skimmed the adjudication -- I deflated some. Especially as the prize was $1000 and the idea of being a starving artist has become a little too literal of late.

The next morning I sat down with my tea, pulled the staples out of my submission, and read the story for the first time since I sent it out two months ago.

Crazy thought: I liked it.

It did some good, like, things, with, like, you know, words and stuff -- and pacing, action, image, and so on. Having held myself to the uncaring fires of self-publishing only to have found myself wanting, I was pleased with how it was apparent I had shaped and tempered to be able to write with purpose. It was a story I could be proud of.

In the end, the only conclusion was: There were four stories they liked better than mine.

And I was okay with that.

But why does it feel like an accomplishment that I can feel that way?

I think traditional authors have an advantage over self-publishers when it comes to rejection. It's easier to be toughened and scored by traditional publishing, and this scouring ends up being beneficial in the long run.

Sending away a piece to a traditional publisher, or a contest, they will tell you, "No, we don't want you." They might as well just send back pictures of a brick wall. Run into this again and again and eventually it becomes routine. If you're lucky, they'll even tell you what your problems are, and be overly mean about it.

Self-publishing doesn't have this in-built kindness by being callous. Self-publishing, there's always an out. No, my piece is fine, I'm just bad at marketing. Or ... my genre isn't popular. My genre isn't selling right now. My promo wasn't arranged right. My cover isn't as good as it could be. My font needs to be bigger. I need a better web page...

There are an infinite number of ways to not cope with the idea that maybe your story just isn't as good as three or four other stories.

I never thought I'd say this, especially after months of silence, never to receive word about manuscripts that I'VE HAD SOLICITED -- that's just cruel -- that dread in the belly that all this talent and time has gone to waste ... but maybe those cold-hearted, harpy-clawed, vicious sons of bitches have actually done me a favor.

Recently I was asked about the title of my site. Seeing it might soon be a thing of the past, I felt I should come clean with it, and say it's primarily from a poem I wrote a few years ago.

Zoo the last few writers in a bad habitat together, like the wild paper seraglio. Start a fund, tap on the glass. Pressed palms to the windows, exquisite sonnets for ending, five lines for pride, five lines wished death of pride. Consternation among the keepers. Papa hasn’t lauded his one testicle in days.

My production has been down lately, and this is why.

Well, I don't know what the weather is like where you live, but in Corner Brook, Newfoundland, renown for having the most precipitation in the Atlantic provinces, snow is how it goes. This year with an exclamation point.But I'm still not going to use an exclamation point for emphasis there. You sound crazy when you use exclamation points!

The first snowfalls were a source of amusement. There's two steps down here.

I took to the snow stubbornly, the flab of fall sure to slough off.

This is one of the first storms. It snowed for two days, and then I methodically went after the white stuff with aplomb. Two hours later my neighbor across the road rescued me with his snowblower. I didn't mind.

Most of the time, I never think about living on an island, Newfoundland being the 16th largest island in the world. Then we have poor weather, followed by unseasonal cold, and a failure at the provincial power hub resulting in rolling blackouts, and when I finally get up to the grocery store, this is what's left of the meat section without the ferries being able to cross.

Meanwhile ... new tenants were coming to live in the apartment downstairs, and it was up to me to shovel their driveway before they arrived.

At the end of the first day, and 10cm of snow still falling ...

They make kind of a creepy flipbook.

But it had to be done ...

It was made more difficult by the guy my neighbor hires to do his driveway snow-blowing his snow up into this driveway, EVEN AS I WAS SHOVELING IT. I flagged him down and told him to stop. He said, "Nobody parks there." And then made more difficult when I got to where the industrial snowblower had widened the streets and had piled the snow at the end. That's why it looks like a huge piece of cake there. It was solid ice, and peeled away like flakes of glass.Feeling bad for his hired man's complicity in my labor, my elderly neighbor offered me the use of his snowblower, but it only would have chopped itself to pieces on the ice.

Until finally ...

Grocery bags for scale.

A buddy came over and helped me move the last ton or so.

And that's winter, my writer's block.

A Taste of My Own Medicine

I edit books for other authors, and often I feel bad about how much blood I draw from their beloved masterworks. Truly the death of a thousand cuts. It can be hard taking the role of the professional honest person at the end of the line: "The Honester" (Yeah, I am absolutely calling myself that in the future).So, mostly out of curiosity, when editing my own science fiction piece, THIS LAND, I turned the Track Changes around on myself, and set to work.

After the first pass through the book, I knew I had already surpassed any bloodletting I'd ever done to a client. This was more than surgery. This was a slaughter. If it were a physical book, it would have closed with a squish.

I got a kick out of looking back after an editing session to see exactly how much I had colored. As an exercise in motivation, I recommend it, as you can visually track your progress.

Below is the version that went out to beta readers. It has 12,160 revisions (5972 insertions, 5633 deletions, 68 moves, and 487 changes to formatting). Though it's not reflected here, after I got it back from beta readers, I cut 7000 words, added 3000, then I sent it off to a proofreader and went over it two more times, implementing recommendations, before publishing it.

It feels great to have the completed book in my hands (so to speak), but also sorta satisfying to be able to crack it open and see how it all happened as well.

EDIT: The last screen capture is from an e-reader app which didn't fill me with confidence.

Months I've spent toiling away in my own personal word mine ... or should I say chipping away at my construction of written life-likeness like a sculptor, removing a few syllables here, an extra word there -- oh, there's a whole huge rumpus of a prologue I don't need up here at the front. Well, that has to go.

I work on my books too much, but I'm proud of them when I let them go. So without further ado, I shove it out front and send it off to kindergarten.

What if your planet were being terraformed by an outside entity and there was nothing you could do?

THIS LAND

Days after a new star appears in the sky, the simple folk of the sleepy fishing community of Bay Banyon are attacked by creatures unlike any they’ve seen before.

Those who survive the morning hole up in the ancient monastery that overlooks the town, only to have their safe-haven become their place of siege.

Cut off from the outside world, they can hope only for rescue, but there might not be anybody left out there to help them.

I don't even remember how I got to be trolling through WWI propaganda posters, but these two tickled me immensely, the Knowledge is Power poster especially. It's nice to see that notion represented with such a strong symbol for a change, rather than a cartoon or a cliche.

For the gaps in my knowledge.

It was only recently that I learned that, in 1984, the then Soviet Union landed a probe on VENUS and took pictures. Until now I've never seen these pictures of another planet which have been around for nearly thirty years. In the event that you as well have been somehow deprived of this information solely on the basis that it was mostly ignored as a fact their competitors didn't want to acknowledge, here's a shot of our next door neighbor closer to the sun:

From Wiki:

The Venera (Cyrillic: Венера) series probes were developed by the Soviet Union between 1961 and 1984 to gather data from Venus, Venera being the Russian name for Venus. As with some of the Soviet Union's other planetary probes, the later versions were launched in pairs with a second vehicle being launched soon after the first of the pair. Ten probes from the Venera series successfully landed on Venus and transmitted data from the surface, including the two Vega program and Venera-Halley probes. In addition, thirteen Venera probes successfully transmitted data from the atmosphere of Venus. Among the other results, probes of the series became the first man-made devices to enter the atmosphere of another planet (Venera 4 on October 18, 1967), to make a soft landing on another planet (Venera 7 on December 15, 1970), to return images from the planetary surface (Venera 9 on June 8, 1975), and to perform high-resolution radar mapping studies of Venus (Venera 15 on June 2, 1983). So, the entire series could be considered highly successful. Unfortunately the surface conditions on Venus are extreme, which meant that the probes only survived on the surface for a duration of 23 minutes (initial probes) up to about two hours (final probes).

In the end I chose not to use the prologue for the first book, but I'm confident it'll make an appearance in the second.

THIS LAND

That Ribbon of Highway

Prologue

The slow fires of eternity burned within them, these three grandfathers of stars, these eggs of civilizations, as through the ageless black they lumbered, ever faithful to the instructions of their masters, given so many eons ago: Proliferate. Prepare. Make way for us. Now these dark leviathans were awakening, beginning to feel the tickle of the nearby yellow sun, growing as a distant hole in the black tapestry of the universe. As they drew nearer, they tasted the flavor of its solar breath over their bodies and found it a refined meal; the star had aged well, to a warm and gentle vintage, since their last visit, and they noted the change with mechanical pleasure: the conditions aligned, their calculations were in agreement; between them they shared a pleasing congruity. Yet something was not as it should be. Though the yellow sun had become the fertile garden they’d expected, the seed of the second planet was not as they’d left it. From afar they detected a surfeit of oxygen and nitrogen; the planet was awash with hydrogen, carbon. Incongruity. Misalignment. The conditions were not in agreement. They awakened more completely, expanding the wings of their consciousnesses wider to swish about these blues and greens and browns they were tasting from the planet in the light of this refined sun. Only, as the cells within them awakened from the cold hibernation of eons, one of the travelers awakened in error. With its kin, it tasted the blues and browns and greens and, like them, came to the pleasure of alignment between their conclusions.Life. However, during their long sleep since the last star, many thousands of years before, portions of its instructions from their creators had been forgotten. In those places where it reached deep inside itself for guidance, it felt only dim memory, half-remembered creeds.Life. With this new congruence of unconformity, its two kin shouldered the wings of their consciousnesses once more, and powered down despite this strange taint to their meal. Misalignment, yes, but, as per their instructions, they were not to create life through extinction, as, above all, their masters had feared making entreaties to the void only to hear the echoes of themselves coming back to them out of the darkness, pips of insignificance in a long, lonely universe. They peered far ahead through the swells and tides of gravity around the outer gas planets, and the clockwork disturbances of comets and unclaimed tumbling stones, and with the most imperceptible adjustment, angled toward the yellow sun, ever to move through the universe, ever to sleep between the cradles of the stars, fulfilling the instructions of their masters, wherever they might be. To aid their exit out of the system, they would bask in the yellow star’s generous feast briefly, and use its gravity to boost them out into the silence of cold oblivion once more, where they would again shutter their minds and wait until they were next needed. Except … in their adjustments they suffered in surprise. Their kin had not turned with them. It was spreading the wings of its consciousness further and had begun to slow.

Asymmetry. Disfluence.

Assessments indicated it was manoeuvring to fulfill their primary initiatives. It would proliferate, it would prepare, it would make way for their masters, and it would protect what it had wrought. If the burst of signals the two ancient leviathans sent to the breakaway traveler could be translated as words, they would be read as: Come with us. Come with us. Come with us. Come with us. Come with us…. And if machines could be said to contain sadness, as the signals gained longer intervals due to the burgeoning distance between them, it could also be said that they understood the futility of their cry across the darkness, because their signals weakened in strength as the distance compounded but they continued to plead with their kin nonetheless, as if the machines could also understand hope, could also comprehend desperation and loss. Originally they had numbered five, but two of their kind had faded in the vastness between the stars. The first was simply not alongside upon awakening at one of their destinations — how long ago, they could barely remember. The other had angled up and out of the galactic plane, slowly rising out of the cone of their experience. For centuries the three had hailed it, and it had replied over increments of thousands of years — still here … still here … still here … until it no longer was and the expanse of space sounded like stars huffing with fire and the cold tinkle of dust over dead rocks; the ether hid no words for them anymore. So, as the breakaway traveler settled in comfortably around the malappropriate planet, its two companions, having slung around the sun to bolster their escape velocity out of the system, sent a final, strong entreaty to their ancient kin; and when their impassioned plea was ignored, they sent no more signals, though they would still be within range for decades, as if the machines could also understand separation, inevitability, acceptance. The three had become two. The remaining traveler turned its attention to the planet slowly heaving beneath it — breathing with life, misalignment — and spread the wings of its consciousness to its fullest capacity, content in the congruence of purpose. The equivalent of long-unused limbs came to life and it stretched and scanned, revelling in its completeness, and made itself ready for the coming execution of arranging this land to alignment. It would propagate. It would prepare. It would make way. But it was not to … It was not to … It was not to … But it was not … not to … It was … not to … to … ?

My apologies for the stale wind that's been huffing through this recent tomb lately. I've been very busy making other author's books fabulouser than they already are, editing two pieces of my own, Master Works both, and taking full advantage of the refreshing bluster of spring.

Soon, I shall rise again and scatter golden idols about carelessly once more.

Until then, I urge patience, and caution: don't trip the backwards partyboobs on the way out.

Lately I've been privileged to be in the company of some fine quality writers, a few of whom I'll be happy to showcase on weekends. Enjoy.

Dream ValleyRobert Thomas

A land held in perpetual summer, the Dream Valley is as lush and beautiful as when the world was born. The air is as sweet as nectar and the water so clear it mirrors the clouds from the sky itself. Nothing ever dies there except for the very old. Never has there been a care until an unexpected invasion from a land long thought dead envelops the Chrystum and two life-long friends are thrown into the ravages of war.Creatures they once fought only in their dreams of glory and grandeur have come to life to rape and pillage their peaceful world. Their only hope now resides in a stranger from outside their realm and the aging wisdom of one of their own as an epic journey of magic and war now consumes them to the very end.

Biography

I welcome all to my world of writing and authorship. I have been writing for many years and have published several fantasy works through Amazon and Smashwords. I have tried to give the tale a feeling of place and circumstances that, although fiction, all readers who enjoy fantasy can relate to.

I have recently released The Crystal Point Legacy, a series of three books: The Dream Valley, Silent Watcher and Death of Kings. I am currently writing the first of another series titled The Last Elf.

I also welcome all to follow along with my blog, Ramblings of a 50 year old man; http://rambling50.blogspot.com. It is just my thoughts on life as I journey along to the fateful end. I have also started a new blog, http://sheimas.blogspot.com which is a first-person prequel to The Crystal Point Legacy.

I am currently working on another epic fantasy series titled, The Last Elf. The first work has a working title of Sands of Nevertime. I hope to have it released late in 2013.

Lately I've been privileged to be in the company of some fine quality writers, a few of whom I'll be happy to showcase on weekends. Enjoy.

Allison's DefeatJRC Salter

Allison is an ordinary modern day girl who hasn't thought much about the nature of the universe, but when asked, she says she doesn't believe in a supreme being. That is until one day when a new school friend tells her she is to be a powerful warrior for God. She refuses to believe it despite her recurring psychic ability and apparent immortality. She intends to get on with her life, and to some extent succeeds, until a mysterious figure from her past forces her to face her destiny.

This is the first book in The Calnis Chronicles series which continues with the Chronicles of the Tarimain, a monthly series of novelettes.

Biography

J R C Salter was born in Devon in the early eighties. Salter trained as a chef and practiced for ten years before quitting to pursue a writing career, having always loved reading and making stories. Salter wanted to write an epic tale encompassing the adventures of different characters surrounding a mysterious artifact. Main inspirations included The Lord of the Rings, the Silmarillion, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Highlander.

Lately, I've been reading a great book called Swerve: How the World Became Modern by Stephen Greenblatt, which, in part, discusses how books were preserved down through the ages after the fall of the Roman Empire by monks right across western Europe.

During the Renaissance, due to "light-fingered Italian Humanists," ancient tomes would often go missing. Books were then on occasion 'guarded' with a curse in the preface.

I'm launching a book shortly, and I thought this would be an absolutely fabulous insert for the beginning.

For him that stealeth, or borroweth and returneth not, this book from its owner ... let it change into a serpent in his hand and rend him. Let him be struck with palsy, and all his members blasted. Let him languish in pain crying aloud for mercy, and let there be no surcease to his agony till he sing in dissolution. Let bookworms gnaw his entrails in token of the Worm that dieth not, and when at last he goeth to his final punishment, let the flames of Hell consume him forever.

It also probably wouldn't be a bad idea to tack the same sorta greeting over my own bookshelf.

Chasing the SunsetBarbara Mack

As a girl, Maggie had been happy, mischievous, and coddled by loving parents. Now her parents are gone, and she's running from an abusive marriage. She has no choice but to take refuge in the wilds of Missouri. When her Uncle Ned gets her a job as a live-in housekeeper to the intriguing Nick Revelle, Maggie feels an immediate attraction - mixed with fear - for her employer. Nick has been hardened by a past marriage, and Maggie's afraid her hidden secrets will make him hate her...

Biography

Barbara Mack has been fascinated by words and writing since early childhood. The first story she put into print format was about the birds who came to nest in the gardening shed; it reviewed well with critics (the neighbors, her mother and father, grandparents, etc.) She then had a poem - Love Never Dies - published in an international magazine at age 11, and she's never looked back.

She currently has several historical romance novels available and when she's not writing furiously, you can find her in the kitchen. Her cookbook Easy, Fabulous Bread Making: A collection of quick, no-knead bread recipes is consistently in the top 50 Amazon books on bread making. The well-reviewed Chasing the Sunset spent 14 weeks in the top 5 historical romances from Amazon.

Lately I've been privileged to be in the company of some fine quality writers, a few of whom I'll be happy to showcase on weekends. Enjoy.

Sherdan's ProphecyJess Mountifield

Sherdan has spent many years planning for the future. Now he's in control and he is expected to forge a fresh new start for the people in his program, people he has shaped and can’t abandon, but Britain's PM has other ideas and Sherdan must face the full might of the UK. On top of all this he has to face the one thing he never expected to feel; love.

Anya is on a mission from God to find out why she has been sent to the heart of Bristol, and what she can do to stop the world being plunged into war. When she finds herself forced to pick a side and join the fight, only her faith in God can see her through.

Sherdan's Prophecy is a tale of high stakes and political intrigue. A science fiction novel where faith and technology come together to take the human race another step closer to the final showdown. Where a few select people make decisions on behalf of many. A gritty account of power that shows both the best and the worst of humanity.

The end of this book, which is the first part of the Sherdan series, left me in need of the sequel.

Jess was born in the quaint village of Woodbridge in the UK, has spent some of her childhood in the States and now resides in the beautiful Roman city of Bath. She lives with her husband Phil and her very dapsy cat, Pleaides. Jess can often be found either in a cafe, grinning behind a large mug of hot chocolate, at her desk, getting annoyed with her cat for sitting on her keyboard, or on her comfy corner sofa with friends, enjoying a vast array of films.

Lately I've been privileged to be in the company of some fine quality writers, a few of whom I'll be happy to showcase on weekends. Enjoy.

The Road to CordiaJess Allison

In the country of Cancordia, on the planet D'Az, set on the edge of the sea, is an isolated Fisherfolk village. In this village people are dying who could have been saved. Ja'Nil (very much against her will) is sent to the Royal Court in the city of Cordia to finda healer. At one time the country of Cancordia was known for its safety, but now you take your life in your hands when they travel the roads. There are slavers, tricksters, dragons, and werewolves, powerful warlords, and ladies with mysterious and terrible gifts. One of the people Ja'Nil meets along the way is a handsome young man named Ee'Rick. They decide to travel together. Only much later does she discover Ee'Rick's secret. At the Palace, the Queen is having troubles of her own. BeforeJa'Nil and Ee'Rick reach the city, traitors put their plan into action.Suddenly the two travelers find themselves caught up in the middle of a deadly political coup. Instead of finally being safe, the most dangerous part of their adventure has just begun. But Ja'Nil is developing a little magic of her own, and Ee'Rick is an incredibly efficient warrior. Even so, Ja'Nil's journey toCordia is turning into an experience she may not survive.

The Road To Cordia is the first in a series of Cancordian Fantasy Adventures.

"... the author's writing was so good that it drew me in and I found myself willing to continue with the story and starting to love these beings especially Ja'Nil and Ee'Rick. Eventually I was hooked and could not put down the book until I finished the story. If you love fantasy or even if you are new to the genre like me, this book will open your eyes to another world. Love it. I am waiting for the sequel."

Biography

Jess Allison is a red-headed adventuress who at 14 ran away from home to work in a circus. She did everything from picking up elephant poop to helping set up joints (booths). It was a whole new world. Now she writes about new worlds and fascinating alien people who sometimes can be quite human.

Stephen ducked back and grabbed a gun for himself. He didn’t know if he was angry at the people for leaving after they were warned, or because they were murdered — eaten —within earshot of the monastery, his home. He could smell the stink of fear rising from inside his robes. He had never fired a gun, but he raised it, pointed it, and fired at the thing that had taken Gemma, its nose still pointing at the sky. He’d liked Gemma, so quiet, secretly smart, always with a smile for strangers in town. The gun kicked back into his shoulder painfully. If he missed, he didn’t care. Even firing, making a resistance, added an action to the blank that had thinned him, anchoring him to the world. No longer did he feel the wind would blow and he’d funnel away like sand. But everyone was gone. He had failed them all. That thought radiated from him like warmth, and from the man next to him, and the next. Helplessly, they’d become fewer.

Lately I've been privileged to be in the company of some fine quality writers, a few of whom I'll be happy to showcase on weekends. Enjoy.

Summer AngelSuzie O'Connell

click for more

Five years ago, a single bullet forever changed three lives. June Montana gained a son when she agreed to foster the boy orphaned by that fatal shot, but lost touch with the man who pulled the trigger--her best friend, Sheriff's Deputy Ben Conner. Appalled, Ben sank into a quagmire of self-loathing. Now, he has come home to Northstar in a last-ditch effort to escape his guilt and nightmares, and to reconnect with June, hoping she can help him find peace. Instead, he is reunited with the boy he orphaned. With June's help, and her son's, Ben might finally find a way to forgive himself, but they have other worries. Someone wants revenge for a broken heart... and he's willing to kill to get it.

Suzie O'Connell grew up in a small town on the Kitsap Peninsula in Western Washington, but has called the mountains and valleys of Western Montana home for well over a decade. She has been writing stories since she was old enough to know how (the first she can recall was penciled in the second grade, about the mouse who went to the sea) and completed her first novel, Summer Angel, before she graduated from high school. After high school, tired of the endless rain, she attended college at the University of Montana-Western and graduated in 2005 with a Bachelor of Arts in Literature and Writing. She is currently working on a Masters of Education and teaches high school English.

When she isn't writing, teaching or studying, Suzie enjoys playing in the mountains with her husband Mark, their daughter Maddie and their energetic golden retriever Reilly. She is also a hobby photographer, specializing in landscapes.

Suzie considers herself to be a rather quirky individual with ecclectic tastes in music, movies and books. She listens to just about anything, including pop, rock, country and techno and her favorite movies range from Grumpy Old Men to Lord of the Rings to Moulin Rouge to Pirates of the Caribbean. When it comes to reading, she prefers fantasy, science fiction, romance and literary fiction.

She firmly believes it's healthy to laugh at yourself, that best friends are worth far more than their weight in gold, and that home truly is where the heart is.

Seeing Hollywood is mostly failing us with its groupthink, its entertainment by committee, and its imperative to please the widest general audience, it's a good thing that the technology is arising for independent filmmakers to produce some seriously interesting sci-fi films of their own.

R'ha, is a short film by animator Kaleb Lechowski, produced as a university project.

Set in the year 2071, where technology has brought mankind to the brink of colonization on a planet named Gaia, one astronaut takes on an isolated mission and discovers unearthly horrors that could bring an end to human life on this planet.

Of the three videos, I like C: 299,792 the most. It has an air of 1980s sci-fi sensibilities about it. The synth music is as important to the film as the acting. It's well conceived. It has style.

As I do editing for other people, and use Track Changes, I was curious as to what my own piece would look like after a polite revisitation. Result: I could probably turn off the light and bask in its glow.

Lately I've been privileged to be in the company of some fine quality writers, a few of whom I'll be happy to showcase on weekends. Enjoy.

Claiming MoonJohn Peters

People are dying in Southwest Virginia, their bodies ripped open, a vital organ missing.

Clearwater Police Detective Frank Taliaferro has served in larger departments, advised the FBI, even worked international cases for The United Nations, but now he’s back where his career began, in the small town of Clearwater, Virginia. And he’s never seen anything like these killings.

Frank finds himself forced to participate in a charity bachelor auction as a public relations move for the police department.

Cassandra Kincaid, a rising star at the Daily Dispatch who has her sights set on moving to one of the larger dailies – New York, Washington, maybe Los Angeles – is forced into participating in the auction as a bidder so she can write a feature piece on the whole process.

Although she is none-too-fond of police, Cassandra ends up winning a date with Frank. Surprisingly, she finds the detective charming, definitely attractive, and enjoys their evening together until the date is interrupted by a gruesome murder.

That’s when things get complicated. The two find themselves drawn together in an uneasy yet passionate relationship while they both race to uncover what is behind a series of macabre murders.

Cassandra’s probing also uncovers a dark secret from Frank’s past, one that drives a wedge of mistrust between them, yet Cassandra finds she can’t get the detective out of her mind.

In the end her feelings for Frank may not matter because the two find themselves in a deadly face-off with the killer. Only then do they learn there is an ancient evil behind the grisly murders, but that discovery may be too late to save either of them.

"This book is well written and fun. I giggled more times than I can remember!"

Biography

John Peters is the author of the novel CLAMING MOON as well as the short horror tale WARREN HOUSE (which reached #2 on Amazon's supernatural horror list), the short horror collection HOLIDAY HORROR (top 50 on Amazon's Hot 100 New Releases), and a half dozen other horror tales available on Amazon.com.

His fiction has appeared in numerous publications, including the Stoker-nominated anthology series The Horror Library (volumes 1 and 3); Night Terrors 2; the Australian magazine Midnight Echo; the British publication Spinetinglers; the Canadian magazine Dark Recesses; and a host of other markets.

In addition to writing fiction. John works full-time as a daily newspaper editor. He, his wife, and their five children live in the mountains of Southwest Virginia.

You can follow John at http://johnpeters2.blogspot.com/ or at https://www.facebook.com/johnpeterswriter

A Shot in the Bark: A Dog Park MysteryCarol Ann Newsome

Would you recognize a serial killer if you met one? Talked to one every day? Artist Lia Anderson doesn’t, and neither does anyone else who frequents the Mount Airy Dog Park. But a violent death brings Detective Peter Dourson into the close-knit group, and he is convinced someone is not who they seem. As the investigation uncovers secrets, Lia struggles to cope with warring emotions and a killer watches.

Biography

I was never supposed to be an author. My brother is the writer in the family (and I'm convinced that someday we'll find a backlog of brilliant manuscripts that he has hidden away over the past several decades) I'm the painter and have spent my life doing odd projects, such as the New Leaf Project, wherein I painted more than 4,000 paintings on wood blocks that have been scattered all over the globe (including Antarctica) for people to find and adopt. (if you're interested, check it out here http://www.newleaf.carolannnewsome.com/)I also like doing collaborative murals with small communities, the most recent of which has been a dragon living under a pedestrian overpass.

In 2001, I suffered a head injury from being struck by a car while riding my bike. Head injuries are funny things, hard to predict what you'll experience, and not much you can do about it except take care of yourself and find a way to pass the time during those periods when you can't function. For several years I spent a lot of time reading popular fiction, often the same books over and over, while hanging out with my dogs. (To this day I am a huge Harry Potter fan because those were the first new books I could read, 5 months after my accident.)

I wrote the first draft of "A Shot in the Bark" longhand during my horizontal episodes. I discovered that it's fun to commit mayhem on paper. I like to write stuff that is fun and scary and romantic, and oh, it has to have dogs. I expect Lia and Peter to have more adventures with their furry children. My only goal is to bring you pleasure. At the end of the day, if I've managed to entertain you, I'm happy.

Lee Burton doesn't have cats or kids, but he does have a lot of books, a couple of mugs he thinks are really fantastic, and a good pair of shoes which haven't fallen apart yet despite his best efforts to murder them with kilometers.Burton has written almost six books. Almost six as some are still scantily clad in their respective drawers. Each of them had their own goals and were written differently, and he is very fond of them all -- except perhaps for his first attempt at a novel, which remains a travesty. That one he keeps locked in a dark basement and feeds it fish heads. In 2011, Burton won the Percy Janes Award for Best Unpublished First Novel in the Newfoundland and Labrador Arts and Letters Competition for his novel Raw Flesh in the Rising.

And just recently, in the fall of 2013, Burton published his first science-fiction novel, THIS LAND, about which he boasts constantly.